


Gods of the Internet

by WordsMakeUs



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mild Smut, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-17 12:48:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10594341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordsMakeUs/pseuds/WordsMakeUs
Summary: He’s finally done it. Dan Howell has finally cringed himself into the twentieth circle of hell by making the colossal mistake of sending his favorite Youtuber an alcohol-fueled message. He’s ready to delete his channel, go underground, and reappear twenty years later under an alias – maybe something as unassuming as, ‘Bob Pancakes’. Before he can crawl under his newfound rock of misery, he receives a response from his idol. The question is, should he read it?





	1. Cringe

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is my first Dan and Phil fanfiction and I appreciate anyone who takes an interest. I don't speculate on the relationship of Dan and Phil, but I do like the possibilities that their personalities and friendship elicit in my imagination. That being said, I certainly do not own Dan, nor Phil. This is a work of pure fiction and I apologize in advance for any mistakes in British slang/culture/general know. I'm American and I'm relying on Dan and Phil, Doctor Who, and Sherlock for most of my believability. Uh, be kind, please?

Dan didn’t know why he did it. In fact, he didn’t even remember doing it in the first place. Which, he decided as he stared at his computer screen in abstract horror, was a blessing really. With no memory to prove otherwise, he could almost convince himself that there had been some sort of mistake. Maybe, just maybe, the wires of the internet had somehow gotten crossed and the pathetic message typed out in front of him had come from some other sorry bloke and not actually from the one sitting at his desk, wearing his face. He didn’t know if ‘internet wires’ getting crossed was a thing, but his panicked mind wanted desperately to believe that it was, indeed, a thing.

If it wasn’t a thing then his miserable life had just reached a novel low. Like twentieth circle of hell, low. As in, he’d drunkenly reached out to his internet idol, twentieth circle of hell low. Yes, he was well aware there was no such thing as ‘twentieth circle of hell’, but he was pretty sure if it existed, then this would be it. Leave it to him to single handedly create a whole new and personalized layer to the Devil’s den. If he weren’t so devastated, he might even be impressed.

As it were, he was devastated at his most recent flub up. And, what’s more, he didn’t even do it in a reasonably acceptable fan way. No, not drunk Dan. That Dan was apparently an emotional wreck that thought it was perfectly appropriate to unceremoniously thrust his existential crisis on to the one person he absolutely never wanted to be pathetic in front of by sending said idol some pitiful dribble about wanting to give up on life because, quote, _‘I don’t feel like I belong anywhere at all’_.

No, not possible. Clearly, this was all some ginormous mistake by the internet Gods. He would have convinced himself of it too, if not for one simple thing – drunk Dan had signed his fucking name at the end, middle name included. He decided, in that moment, that drunk Dan was a twat that was never to see the light of day again. It was a lie, of course, but a lie he needed to believe with all his might as his mind absorbed the full consequences of his actions. He groaned into his hands as he re-read the message he’d sent to AmazingPhil’s Youtube account.

 

_Hiiii…. So, you don’t know me, but I love you. I mean, I love your stuff, not you. Wait, that sounds worse, right? I mean, I really like you also. As a person. Platonically. Not that we’re friends or have even met IRL, but you seem cool in a dorky way. Anywaaaay, I just wanted to say I think you areamazingphil (pfft, get it??) for being you and forputting You out there. I don’t know, I jusst, really admire that. I don’t do that. Too worried about being judged, ya know? Like ridiculously worried about what other people think of me so I just hide. I hide behind my sarcasm and pretend to not be interested in things I actually love because it’s not cool or it’s not conventional and I’m just suffocating by trying to be someone I’m not. I kinda hate myself, really. I … I’m tired. Reaaly tiired of everything and I don’t know what to do anymore. Sometimes I want to go to sleep and stay asleep. Sorry for writing you all this, I don’t know why I am. I guess it’s easier to tell a stranger all this than the people around me. They won’t understand. They won’t want to deal with it. Not that you want to either. Hell, I don’t even want to deal with it. _

_Fuck.This is weird, right? I’m sorry. I’m not crazy, I promise. Like I’m not gonna stalk you or something so don’t worry.Anyways, keep up the good work. That’s not a threat or anything. Like I’m not gonna come stab you if I don’t think you are living up to my expectations. Right, well, I’m drunk so I have to go vomit in a rubbish bin now._

_Sincerely your number 1 trash fan, Daniel James Howell._

 

Dan tried to tell himself it wasn’t all that bad. Sure the spelling was atrocious and there were some run on sentences and inconsistencies, but... no, scratch that, it was fucking awful. No matter how he tried to spin it, he had come off as a complete and total nutter. Honestly, if mortification could be harnessed as fuel, he was absolutely positive his, in that moment, would be enough to power the entirety of the earth for years to come. Decades, even. Maybe indefinitely, he thought, going back over the careless words he’d drunkenly sent to a popular internet vlogger.

He was just about to delete his entire channel in the hopes that his message had gone unread and there was still time to salvage the situation when he got it, a response. His eyes widened and he almost threw himself to the floor of his bedroom in shock when a message from Phil fucking Lester appeared. He couldn’t believe it. He was an emotional wreck as his brain tried to compute that his idol had actually taken the time to respond to him. If this were any other time, he’d be thrilled. Except, Dan knew what Phil was responding to and the pit of his stomach threatened to refund him his modest breakfast of buttered toast.

“Oh no.” He ran his hands through his hair, fingers trembling. “No, no, no… I don’t want to see this. I absolutely don’t want to know what he’s written.”

Dan stood abruptly, knocking his desk chair over in the process. He left it as he paced around the room, muttering to himself, “Okay, how bad can it be? He probably didn’t say much. Maybe he’s only asking me to politely refrain from ever sending him a message again. That’s not so bad, right? I mean, it’s not like he actually knows me. I’ll never see him in person so it’s fine. I can just get rid of this channel and… and… forget about him.”

Even as he said it, Dan felt something akin to grief settle over him. It was stupid, but he didn’t want to forget about the stranger with the infectious smile and whimsical sense of humor. AmazingPhil was the best part of Dan’s existence and if he had to give that up, he didn’t know what he’d do to combat the anxiety and the depression that had recently threatened to consume him. As much as he hated to admit it, there were some truths to the message he’d sent. Dan really didn’t feel like he belonged and it was only when he watched a stranger’s video’s that he could pretend there was a place for him. Phil didn’t know it, but, as pathetic as it was, he was Dan’s only friend in the sense that he was the only person guaranteed to brighten Dan’s increasingly apathetic days.

He smacked himself on the forehead, a gesture that stung and would likely leave a mark. He rubbed the spot and, voice level, said, “Right, get a hold of yourself you prat. He’s not your friend, he doesn’t know you, and this is not the end of the world. Just read the damn thing and get it over with.”

Still frazzled, yet filled with resolve, he approached the fallen desk chair. He stared at it a moment before deciding it was better left as is and, leaning over it, clicked on the message. The internet was deplorably slow, as per usual, as it kept him in limbo. His finger twitched, hovering over the X in the top right corner of the web page. He was losing his nerve as he waited, and just as he decided it was better not to know after all, it appeared. Phil’s message was before him in all its, likely, terribly glory.

Except, maybe not so terrible after all, it seemed as his eyes skimmed the first line. In fact, Dan wondered if he wasn’t actually hallucinating Phil’s response as some sort of coping means. Deciding that was fairly unlikely, his apprehension lifted long enough to right the chair and place himself in it. He took a calming breath before diving into the full length of AmazingPil’s response and what he found within was something so absolutely incredulous he had to reconsider the whole hallucination theory.

 

_Hello number 1 trash fan Daniel James Howell,_

_I hope you are hydrating yourself well as it sounds you are in need of refreshing watery goodness. Remember, water is the glorious life giver… unless you, you know, go a bit overboard; both literally and figuratively as it were. Fun fact! The human (male) body is made out of 60% water, give or take. Though, from the sound of it, I’d say yours is quite lacking at the moment. Not a jab, mind you, alcohol is a slippery slope indeed. No judgyness from me. Is that a word? It’s a word now, even if it isn’t… or wasn’t before. Anyway, I like you too!_

_Platonically, of course. I’m thrilled you like my stuff; I’m never too sure it’s something relatable as I seem to have quite un-relatable experiences. Life, I’ve decided, is odd. I am sorry to hear that you don’t feel as though you belong. I know that feeling and I still experience it. It’s OKay to feel as though you don’t belong Dan. It took me a while to realize that, but I do now. In my humble opinion, it just means you are a person of depth. I don’t know what you’re interested in that you’re ashamed of, but I know what it’s like to not be run of the mill and it can be exhausting to pretend to be._

_I don’t think you should pretend though – unless you like to skin people and use their flesh as a suit, that’d be pretty disturbing. I think you should try embracing who you really are - unless, as mentioned above, you like wearing people’s skin. Don’t do that. That’s frowned upon. In all seriousness, you won’t find where you belong unless you show yourself, your real self. Think about it. Sober, if possible. Also, if possible, message me back. I’d like to know you’re alright. It was a bit of a dramatic message exit saying you’re going to be sick and you’re my number one trash fan. Let me know you survived, yeah?_

_A very flattered, somewhat worried, AmazingPhil. P.S. I will do my best to make you proud... slightly out of concern for my continued safety._

 

AmazingPhil was… well, amazing. Dan stared at the screen, words blurring together, as he processed his idol’s message. He was sure he’d royally made a mess of things, yet, he hadn’t. Instead of the dismissal he’d expected, he’d gotten an endearing letter, full of humor, and, what appeared as (dare he say it), genuine concern. Why in God’s name his alcohol addled brain had considered sending a Youtuber a bizarrely melancholic message was beyond him.

It was truly the most cringe worthy thing he’d ever done and that was no small list to be compared to. Yet, it had opened an unexpected doorway that he was not about to forgo. Even till, what was he supposed to reply with after that? Should he be funny? Or, given the circumstances, should he shoot for apologetic? He almost talked himself out of it, but a request from Phil, and the possibility of continued correspondence with him was all too much a lure; he desperately wanted to write back.

He held his hands above the keyboard, biting his lower lip as he hesitated to reply. Despite the utter embarrassment of it all, he couldn’t help but feel grateful that the response he’d received wasn’t one of cruelty. Surely it was nothing short of a miracle that he’d received one at all, but really, he wasn’t owed something as nice as what he’d gotten back. AmazingPhil actually wanted to know that the crazy person who’d been raving like a mad person to him was alive, but could he blame him? Recalling AmazingPhil’s advice, Dan set out with a reply in mind.

_I wanted to first say that I am SO sorry for messaging you something so morbid. I was drunk off my arse and I honestly don’t even remember doing it. It wasn’t until I got your reply that I found out what a creepy thing I’d done. I’m alive and I am never drinking again so you won’t need to live in fear that that one random person who apparently gets drunk and thinks you’re Doctor Phil died drowning on his own sick whilst thinking of you. Again, I’m reeeaaallly sorry for this and am appropriately ashamed of my behavior._

_That being said, thank you for your message, I did appreciate it. The fact that you took the time to read AND reply to something so apparently incoherent is admirable. As of yesterday I lead a skin-people-free life. Nasty hobby, really – hard to get the stains out and the skin suits never seem to fit exactly right – so I’ve decided to give up the practice. THAT’S A JOKE!_

_I_ _ AM sober now so no need to worry about my well-being. It was a low moment, assuredly, but I have hydrated myself and I, as of now, feel much more 60% water-filled human-esque than previously. It’s refreshing really. In all honesty, your advice is something I really will have to consider. I’ve always wanted to be myself; I’m just not sure anyone else would want that as well. _

_Anyway, thank you again. Truly._

_Sincerely, #1 Trash Fan Dan. P.S. I look forward to your next Vlog posting. The fact that I’m sharpening my kitchen knife whilst waiting is a mere coincidence._

 

Dan held his breath as he hit send and then collapsed onto the bed right after. He hoped he hadn’t taken it too far with the dark humor, but AmazingPhil had been joking with him first he justified. He flopped onto his back and stared up at the white ceiling. It was almost too natural the way he’d replied and bantered with the stranger across the web wires. It felt almost normal and that worried Dan. One reply didn’t make them friends; it didn’t even make them acquaintances. This, he told himself, was a short-lived utopia.

Utopia, as it turned out, wasn’t such a fleeting thing after all. When he received another response a day later, Dan expected it to be the end of all further communication. What he got, however, was the complete opposite. Perched on the edge of his seat, Dan’s eyes traveled through each line at record speed and, by the end, he was ear to ear with a smile that physically hurt.

_SO glad to hear from you, I was WORRIED, like seriously. I didn’t know what I would do if you never wrote back, but I was imagining all sorts of heroic hacker-like scenario’s to get your information. Um, not in a stalkerish way. Though, I would totally have used my imagined powers for good, mind you. In any case, I hope the inevitable hangover didn’t hit you too hard what with all that hydrating. You also needn’t be sorry; I think those of us that partake in the devilry that is booze has been where you are._

_Well, maybe not explicitly, but similarly. Are you okay now? I mean, I know you aren’t ready to be ‘yourself’ per say, but are you still feeling down? If you’d like, we could talk about it? I mean you don’t have to! Just, if you’d like someone to talk to, I don’t mind, is all. Sorry for such a short message, I’ve got loads of work to do and so little time. Ah! But I have time for you! So, really, if you’d like to chat, I’ll chat back._

_Sincerely, the person who is sweating under the pressure of making a great next Vlog, but clearly in no relation to the person who is randomly sharpening a kitchen knife. Ha…ha…. *sweat*_

Dan laughed at the message and then, with an elation he hadn’t felt in a long while, put his finger’s to his laptop. Five minutes later – and a fair amount of backspacing and a mild case of hysteria – he hit send and stood from his chair. He took a calming breath and walked with a newfound ease over to the mobile discarded on his nightstand. After a quick moments search, he hit the call button. He waited for the ringtone to dismiss itself as the other party answered. Before they breathed a word he rushed, “Hey, it’s me. You’ll never believe what’s happened…”


	2. A Run of Bad Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While I admit this chapter started off as something I disliked, I ended up being pretty satisfied with it. I even forced my mother to read it and, Woo Boy, it was a first for me having to explain to a parent that I was writing gay fan-fiction. But, since I needed a second opinion, I did it for you guys. She liked it (possible biased opinion applies), despite never having read a single LGBT fiction in her life, and I'm hoping you guys will too. As stated, it's a slow burn, so don't expect too much fluff or smut right off the bat. Enjoy the ride and hope to see you at the next chapter!
> 
> Also, I'm not sure what warrants a trigger warning, but mention's of vomit within. Not overly descriptive, but there. 
> 
> Happy reading.

It had only been ten minutes and already Phil was pressing a finger to his temple as if he could poke out the burgeoning headache beginning to form as he listened to his history Professor prattle on. Normally Phil enjoyed his classes and was eager to fill his mind with facts, both useful and trivial. What he did not enjoy was listening to a man drone on about a subject Phil was sure the man knew next to nothing about.

 

At this point he was fairly convinced the UNI staff had allotted this particular position through the drawing of straws. It was the only explanation he could come up with that reasonably accounted for such a gross negligence in hiring. Simply put, Phil’s University either couldn’t be bothered to actually interview their prospective Professor’s, or had a wacky and adventurous approach to their hiring system. He liked to think it was the latter.

 

As Professor Tenderlain jabbered on, Phil bit his tongue, choking back the burning need to inform the rest of the class that they were not, in fact, getting their money’s worth. With the continual force-feeding of incorrect information from the least competent man Phil had ever met, he could feel his mind succumb to the usual vague paralysis that now accompanied his Tuesday and Thursday morning lectures. He’d realized after the second week he would never survive otherwise and thus, as a means of self-preservation, Phil slumped back against his chair and blanked out.

 

“Mr. Lester, would you care to join us in the discussion or are you too preoccupied with that particular panel on the ceiling to give me your undivided attention?” Professor Tenderlain’s boisterous voice bellowed through the confines of Phil’s mind, startling him into dropping his pen.

 

Bending to the side he retrieved his wayward writing tool – an obnoxious panda bathed pen he’d picked up on a whim at the local shopping mart – and flushed scarlet when he righted himself and found an uncomfortable number of eyes focused on his face. Phil was fine sitting behind a camera, talking to strangers, but having them stare him down in person was another matter altogether.

 

“Any time now, Mr. Lester.”

 

He cleared his throat of the sticky phlegm that appeared to have taken up residence at some point during the long winded lecture, “Uh, yeah. I mean, no, I’m listening.” 

  
“Is that so? Then I suppose you wouldn’t mind reiterating to the class what the last five minutes of my lecture was on then, would you?” The man stood smugly in front of his podium, arms crossed, and with one overly thick eyebrow raised expectantly. Phil entertained the notion that a fair portion of the hair meant to be on top of the man’s exceeding hairline had migrated south, found the indigenous follicles agreeable, and set up camp in a rather sporadic frenzy of excitement.

 

“O-of course, Professor.” In truth, Phil hadn’t been listening. Rather, he’d been far removed from the tedious sermon of a man that cared more for his own voice than the delivering of actual (and accurate) knowledge to the student’s giving him their time. He racked his brain trying to shuffle through any possible response that would not get him laughed out of class. He had nothing.

 

“Well?”

 

“Uh, right,” He cleared his throat again, not out of necessity this time, but as a means to postpone the inevitable humiliation that came next, “you, uh… you were explaining the –”

 

“Professor Tenderlain!” Directly beside him, a lively male voice interrupted Phil’s far less spirited one.

 

Tenderlain had startled nearly as much as Phil – who had yet again dropped his panda pen – at the sudden outburst. The man shuffled back a step and, seeming to notice his misstep, appeared to stand up a little straighter and expand his chest, “I will not tolerate unwarranted outbursts in this class. Sit back down Mr. Liguori before I have you leave.”

“Right, yes,” the boy shot to his feet, “as it so happens, I request that you do, in fact, dismiss me.”

 

Phil ferried away the amused snort readying to launch as he glanced towards his Professor. The man was nearing purple as he sputtered, “I…you, you request what now?”

 

There was an audible sigh of impatience from the curly haired lad that had postponed Phil’s reckoning. Speaking slowly, the young man replied, “I request permission to be excused.” He rocked, or rather, swayed on his heels, “I need to seek medical attention. _Urgently_. As in, right this very moment.”

 

Proffessor Tenderlain stared at him in furious awe before beginning a, no doubt, cutting remark, “Listen here –“

 

A moment before it happened, Phil had already guessed the reason behind the request. The boy practically turned the color of seaweed and, though he was perfectly aware he was in the line of fire, there was little Phil could do about it except lean as far away as possible. Bracing himself of the oncoming tide of bodily fluids did nothing to curve the sudden compulsion to vomit alongside the student. _I see he had the eggs and sausage_ , he thought offhandedly as bile rose in his throat.

 

Phil just did manage to suppress the urge; however, it appeared that not everyone was in as much bodily control as he was. A chorus of haunting sounds echoed throughout the room and, almost immediately, an overwhelmingly acrid smell flourished within the confines of the lecture hall. Phil scrambled to pull his jumper over his nose, redirecting all inhalation of air from his tortured nasal cavity to his mouth. He took a tentative breath, testing the makeshift mask. It helped, if only a little. 

 

Around him, the room was in chaos. Students were leaping out of their chairs, over their tables, or even, he noted with some amusement, each other. Some of the luckier ones, those that had chosen a seat closer to the two exits, had already made their grand escape. A good portion though, were either cornered, covered in sick, or simply cowering under their desks looking for all the world like victims of an unexpected air strike.

 

Out of the forty something people left in the room, only two caught Phil’s focus for more than a split second of observation. Professor Tenderlain was the first to garner Phil’s undivided attention. Still at his podium, like a captain at the helm of his sinking ship, Phil watched as his beady eyes filtered over the expanse of the room in muted horror.

 

The second person to earn Phil’s notice was the one that had started the great vomit upheaval himself, “Well,” the boy wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, “I did try to warn him.”

 

Phil couldn’t help himself; as the nonchalantly spoken words sunk in and he reviewed the carnage around him, he let out a deep, soul lifting laugh that caused more than a few odd, and somewhat alarmed, looks to be sent his way. It was all too surreal, too perfect in timing, to not find hilarious. Still chuckling he said, “Yeah. Yeah, you did.”

 

Phil spent the next half hour in the men’s washroom trying to sort out the mess on his trousers. He had been fairly lucky, far luckier than some, and had only been mildly peppered with sick. It wasn’t so much the amount as the smell that lingered despite having scrubbed so furiously at the material of his black skinny jeans that an unfortunate misunderstanding had come about. Phil groaned again at the thought of the student that had come in at precisely the wrong time with precisely the wrong angle of entry. The student, whoever he was, had taken one glance at Phil’s back as he vigorously wiped at his pants and, just as quickly as he’d entered the washroom, left.

 

Phil had tried to call after him; a lame, “It’s not what you think”, dying on his lips as the door slammed closed. He spent a couple more minutes trying to salvage his second favorite pair of skinny jeans, edged on by the knowledge that he had another class within the hour to attend, before calling it. It was a lost cause, he decided, half out of frustration, and half out of fear that, if he continued, he’d become the source of illicit rumors. Phil didn’t fancy being the cause of panicked whispers of a perverted wanker in the men’s room, no matter how misconstrued they may be. 

 

He sighed and resigned himself to the return trek back to his flat. Having his own place was one of the few perks of being in his last year of Uni. It was a small and modest space, but he’d weathered too many uncomfortable roommates throughout his scholarly career to care about that. He’d happily work overtime and give up square footage if it meant a restful evening without the awkward, “Please stop shagging on my bed”, talk.

 

What he didn’t like, however, was the length of the walk that he had to endure. Especially, he thought as he cast a glance at the greying sky, during bad weather. He _could_ take a bus, but the stops between only prolonged the amount of time before his arrival home. A taxi, given that he was financially responsible for himself these days, was out of the question as per his own rules of relatively adequate adulting. A week of ramen, he reminded himself, wasn’t worth a five minutes ride.

 

The walk back started off well enough; however, his silent pleas for the sky to hold fell through midway. Cold water poured from the ever darkening clouds; it dribbled from his hair down to his neck, and then slipped slowly along the length of his back in an unfriendly reminder that Phil really ought to check the forecast each morning before setting out. It’s the same thing he always told himself during a decent rain, and the first thing he forgot as soon as it stopped and he was warm again, cozied up on his sofa with a warm brew in hand.  
   
Exhausted, wet, and chilled to the bone, Phil finally saw salvation a couple of blocks ahead. The door, covered in a ghastly pastel purple paint – cracked and aged with time – beckoned him. Against his own nature, he began to jog. He reached the doorway of his building in record time; the wheezing and panting all the proof he needed to know that he’d outdone himself. There was no pride in that, he acknowledged, doubled over and contemplating phoning emergency help for the very real possibility of a heart attack.

 

Still aware of the extensive lack of oxygen to his body, Phil felt around for his key, dreading the climb he’d have to the fourth floor. Apparently his building was not especially concerned with the faint of heart and the generally unfit and, upon its opening, had declared a policy of Darwinism. Phil always knew natural selection would be his downfall, he just never expected it to be so soon.

 

After regaining a portion of his breath, he checked his pockets and then his bag.  After the fifth search, Phil realized that he was, without a doubt, sans key. He pressed his forehead against the door and whispered, “I know this is a longshot, but, if you have any sentient tendencies, I’d really appreciate it if you’d open just this once.” He waited a beat before adding, “There may even be a new coat of paint in it for you; maybe something in green.”

 

As expected, the door remained closed and locked, despite his best efforts in bribery. Should have gone with blue, everyone loves blue. As he figured it, Phil had two choices: wait for someone to come along, or harass and beg those that may be inside to buzz him in. He opted for choice two given the amassing likelihood of frostbite he was likely to suffer. A mild exaggeration, but the misery was real

.

Phil was sure that he was having the very worst of luck as he reached the final tenant on the list some odd minutes later. The majority of the people within the building had not answered, which was perfectly normal given that it was a weekday morning. One person, a man, had responded in a language that Phil wasn’t entirely sure wasn’t made up, and he’d given up after two long minutes of repeatedly asking for help in as many languages as he knew. Which, as it happened, wasn’t many. Actually, it was just two: English and Japanese. Neither, he found, were very helpful.

 

The only other person who answered was a Mrs. Reynard, and she had threated to ring the police if Phil continued to bother her. He had quickly apologized and, a bit more hesitantly, moved on to the next. He stared at the last name on the list, well, not the last. Rather, it was the sixth name, and Phil had purposely skipped over it. The last resort, the one person in the building Phil actively tried to avoid, was the only option left.

  
“No,” He decided, “I won’t do it. It’s not worth it.”

 

“Won’t do what?”

 

Phil had never claimed to be very masculine, but the voice of his worst, and often, reoccurring nightmares, suddenly appearing beside his ear had him squawking like an undignified parrot. He froze in place, the lingering echo of his shrill screech perforating the air. Just kill me now, he pleaded inwardly.  
Outwardly, he plastered on a smile and turned to face his nemesis, “Ms. Chatom, how lovely to see you.”

 

The shrewd eyes of a woman in her elderly years raked over Phil and, the permanently sour expression etched on her face deepened as she spoke, “You look like a half-drowned cat in a sack that’s been tossed in a river.”

 

His carefully crafted smile faltered, “Yes, well, I’ve had a run of bad luck.”

 

She shifted her bag of groceries, dismissed his words entirely, and gestured at the door with her narrow chin, “Well? Aren’t you going to get the door?”

 

“Yeah, about that –“

 

“Oh never mind,” Ms. Chatom shoved him aside with the hand holding her umbrella, “I’ll do it myself. Should have known better than to even ask; this generation has nothing but excuses for everything.”

 

For the second time that day, Phil found the need to bite his tongue. He wanted to defend himself, but doing so would only cause more of a headache than the one he already had. He opted for silence as he waited for her to open the door. He almost offered to help her retrieve the key from her oversized handbag – really, what did women carry with them that they needed to utilize such massive amounts of space – but decided better of it.

 

When the door was finally opened, waiting and willing for Phil to enter, he had an epiphany, “I still can’t get in.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Phil, flustered that he’d spoken out loud, muttered, “My keys, I locked them in the flat. It’s the reason I’m still out here. I couldn’t get into the building. I just realized I can’t get into my place without them, either.”

 

Ms. Chatom let out a long suffering sigh and an impressive eye roll, “And they say the children are our future. I fear the day that becomes so.” She moved forward, shaking the umbrella off as she reached the hall. When Phil didn’t follow, too preoccupied with his new revelation, Ms. Chatom sighed again, “Well?”

 

“Pardon me?”

 

“My groceries; I may be spry for a seventy-one year old, but it’s only polite to offer to carry them. As a young man of twenty – how old are you?”

 

“Oh, er, twenty-two.”

 

“As a young man of twenty-two, even with that appallingly scraggy build of yours, you ought to be capable of carrying at least one bag of groceries up the stairs,” she continued on, “or are you so lacking in manners that you didn’t even think to offer?”

 

No, Phil hadn’t thought to offer, but he wasn’t about to admit it, “Right. Yes, of course, may I help you?”

 

“No. I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.” She answered airily, heading towards the stairs. “Still, you ought to at least offer.”

 

Phil trudged along behind her, gnawing on his lip, willing the day to be over and done with already. This was exactly why he avoided any run-ins with Ms. Chatom. She was impossible, utterly impossible. Ever since the very first day of his move-in, Phil had avoided her like the plague. He’d even gone so far as to memorize her schedule in order to do so. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but Phil preferred to avoid confrontation when possible.

 

When they reached the third floor, Phil was genuinely relieved. This was where Ms. Chatom got off and, despite being resigned to sitting at his door until maintenance arrived sometime after the lunch hour (it was always a guess as to when exactly), Phil found comfort in knowing there’d at least be peace until then. Or, so he’d thought.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ms. Chatom asked as Phil mumbled a goodbye and headed for the next floor.

 

“Um, to my flat?” He answered, uncertainly.

 

“And how do you plan to get in, exactly?” She questioned with, if he wasn’t mistaken, an amused expression. When Phil didn’t respond promptly she waved her folded, slightly dripping, umbrella at him, “You might as well come in and be useful while you wait for someone to let you in.”

 

“I…uh, I’m fine. It’s fine.” He stammered.

 

“Oh, nonsense. Come in. It’s the least you can do after accosting me that day.” She said. And then, under her breath, added with a chuckle, “At least, with that unnatural height of yours, I won’t have to climb the counter to put away the dishes.”

 

Phil flinched, and, remembering the infamous day she was referring to, shuffled in behind her, “Yes. Of course, thank you Ms. Chatom.”

 

Meanwhile, some distance away, an increasingly paranoid Dan scrutinized his last reply to AmazingPhil. It was the same reply that had gone unanswered for two whole days and, so far, he’d found a hundred and one reasons why it was utter shit and had found doubly the amount of reasons to hate himself. He looked at the bottle of cheap Vodka sat next to his computer and, after re-reading his own reply and finding a hundred and two reasons why it was utter shit, reached for the hapless bottle. _Just a bit, just a little bit is all I need_ , he promised himself. It was the same promise he made every time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a smidge of Dan in this one, but the next will be very Dan-centric. We get a glimpse into Phil's life and meet three new character's that will each play an important role (P.J. Liguori is a real human being that I do not control, nor know, or speculate upon in real life). Also, Dan's coping mechanism for his depression is coming to light, but more on that next chapter. Last, but not least, Ms. Chatom, love her or hate her, she's not done with Phil yet. What exactly is her mysterious backstory with Phil, find out next time!


	3. The different Dan's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan hasn't heard back from AmazingPhil and has comforted himself in the best way he knows how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... This is a chapter that went so differently than I had in mind. It's... darker. This story was always going to get a bit darker before getting brighter, but it happened earlier than expected. I hope that's okay. I work, like a lot, so I'm sorry if this took a while. Still extremely happy at how well it's done for only two chapter's, though! Please continue to (kindly) guide me and let me know what you think! Hope you like it! 
> 
> Side note: I do not have a beta and I am horrible at grammar so please forgive me for my writing mistakes, I do try.

Dan, stomach to the carpet, lifted his head off the floor. The movement transformed his room into a tilt-a-whirl and he had to close his eyes until the spinning sensation eased off. When he felt as though he was only slightly careening around the earth’s axis rather than zooming by on maximum overdrive, he dared to open his eyes. He found the nausea that had come with the spinning was manageable so long as he refrained from moving.

Through squinted eyes, Dan sought out his alarm clock. He found it lying on the floor, turned just enough so that he could only make out the two of the four digits. It was eleven past something and, one glance at the window and the soft glow growing dimmer by the second, figured he was in the early twilight hours of the evening. He groaned at the thought of spending another night wide awake and was tempted to simply put his head back down and spend the rest of the night on the floor.

He might have too, if his body hadn’t been full of liquid that it desperately wanted to purge. Speaking of… _ah, there._ Next to the alarm clock was the nondescript coffee mug he’d been drinking out of before he’d found himself belly up. _Wait,_ his lips turned down in a confused frown, _why am I on the floor again?_ As if on cue, a sharp throb shot through his forehead, igniting a series of blinding fireworks in his eyes.

“What the absolute fu – owe!” He’d touched the center of his forehead where the pain had started and nearly pissed himself as his fingers connected with the tender lump that had, at some point, formed there.

 _Why the hell – oh, right._ The jolt had sparked his memory and Dan didn’t know whether to cry or laugh at how spectacularly he’d failed. He’d started drinking around noon and by the third refill of vodka and cranberry, Dan had loosened up enough to think that checking AmazingPhil’s Youtube channel for new uploads was as good an idea as any. The only stipulation tipsy Dan had for doing so was the promise that he would not, under any circumstance, send AmazingPhil a message. He had the sticky notes all around his desk to remind him of that promise.   

When his abhorrently slow connection finally regained consciousness, he was both delighted and annoyed to see a new video waiting in the playlist of Phil’s channel. As per usual, the part of Dan that never ceased to fan boy at any new content created by AmazingPhil was practically high from the thrill of seeing Phil’s face looming at him from the screen, a sort of spastic smile on his lips. However, the other Dan, the Dan that sort of hated himself and everything he did, said, and thought, wanted to shut the laptop and maybe throw it at the wall for good measure.

It was exactly that butt hurt, childish reaction that made Dan loathe existential crisis Dan – or so Dan liked to call him. Existential crisis Dan had gone on a self-pitying kick when AmazingPhil hadn’t responded to his last message; the lack of a response had been taken as a sign of rejection. As it happened, existential crisis Dan didn’t handle rejection all that well and, immature as it was, wanted to reject AmazingPhil right back in some sort of juvenile attempt at revenge. Only problem was, AmazingPhil would never even know he’d been culled from Dan’s life.

And then there was Drunk Dan; the Dan that simply could not give two shits about anything other than the now. Drunken Dan was by far the more prominent Dan at the moment he’d found Phil’s video and that Dan was well beyond intrigued by the title of Phil’s new video. After all, who could pass up a video labeled: An Elderly Woman Forced Me to Put Her Dishes Away Whilst Wearing Her Nightie!!

 _Really,_ he thought, _there’s no going back after seeing a thing like that._ Drunken Dan was sold and he wasted no time in pushing Existential Crisis Dan out of the driver’s seat. He took a moment to refill his coffee mug with vodka and elder people juice – very fitting he decided given the nature of the video he was about to watch – and then pressed play. Three seconds into the video and, like some sort of wild elephant in Safari, Dan was spewing his mouthful of alcohol out and onto the computer screen.

The sight of a pouting Phil in a lady’s floral nightie, obviously worn and faded with the passage of time, had him snorting with uncontrollable laughter. He had to pause the video to mop up the drink he’d ejected all over his only one real outlet and then had to wait another five minutes to restart the video as every time his eyes caught the screen he burst into a fit of giggles. He’d had to actually swivel his desk chair around and take a few calming breaths before he could rightfully control himself long enough to properly watch the story unfold.

When he’d finally been able to turn back around and restart the video, he’d convinced himself there was a perfectly good reason why AmazingPhil hadn’t been able to message him back. Obviously the poor lad had been kidnapped and cruelly imprisoned by a woman in her yesteryears – whose kink apparently involved dressing young and attractive men in women’s nighties – to put away her dishware. The appropriate response to such news should probably be horror and concern, but Dan only snorted in amusement and settled in for the story.

**A very serious and Pouty Phil stared out from the screen. With a cheerful ‘hello’ to his viewers, he launched into narrative _, “ So_** _**you all may be wondering why I’ve titled the video as such and why I am currently wearing a woman’s nightie… I too, am wondering the same thing. I mean, the day started off normal enough. In fact, it started off really great. I woke up early, for once, I had two bowls of my favorite cereal while I watched anime, and a lovely homeless chap told me I looked rather fetching on my way to Uni this morning.”** _

**There was a thoughtful pause before he continued, _“Well, that last one was a bit on the creepy side, but still… a good start to the day. Now, if any of you have watched some of my more recent videos, you’ll already know that there is one class this semester that I particularly loathe. I won’t out the Professor as that’s in bad form, but I will say that I am very pleased to announce that today’s series of unfortunate events did lead to a wonderfully, albeit horrific, karmic payback, so dubbed:_ _The Great Vomit Apocalypse. Sadly, there were casualties… sorry Amber. We’ll remember you fondly.”_**

Dan sipped his drink, laughing and cleaning his screen occasionally, as Phil described his morning lecture. He was giddy with amusement, but, by the time he reached the bit about the washroom incident, Existential Dan was already edging his way back in. If he paid mind to it, he could hear the whining and tittering of the Dan that longed to have experienced a day at Uni with the boy on the screen, vomit and all. Maybe if he’d had a friend like that while he was attending his own Uni, he’d have stayed for more than a fortnight.

Instead, he’d let the crippling anxiety walk him to his supervisor and watched, secondhand, as he’d filled out a slip requesting a leave of absence. He’d convinced them, and himself, that it was only a small break, for ‘health reasons’.  He’d yet to return and, in another week, he’d be automatically dropped from all of his classes, no refund. He shuddered a little at the thought of his parents receiving _that_ letter in the mail. Even with the inevitable argument in mind, brought on by his parent’s future ire and disappointment, it still couldn’t muster up enough motivation to return to law school.

He downed the last of his drink, nothing more than backwash by now he guessed, and began the task of refilling. Dan hadn’t fully caught every moment of Phil’s video, too busy with another bout of self-pity, but when Phil came to the part where he’d been invited into another tenants home, he straightened up. He was genuinely curious about what had happened after Phil had entered the woman’s lair.

**“As soon as I entered the flat I was immediately scolded for dripping water everywhere and literally pushed into the loo by this little, frail-looking woman.  And then,” Phil’s voice raised an octave as he continued, “she actually held the door closed from the other side as she ordered me to strip!”**

Dan's imagination set the scene of a poor terrified Phil standing in an overly frilly washroom, held in by some spirited granny, as he was ordered to remove his wet clothing. He was laughing at the imagined look on Phil’s face; probably a mix between stupefied and ‘trapped animal’. If only he could have been a fly on that wall.

**“By this point, I’m terrified and all I want to do is leave.  I kept trying to tell her I’d just go if it was a problem, but she wouldn’t have it. I know I could have barreled through the door, he-man style, but I was seriously afraid I’d break her hip or something and be labeled as The Bone Crusher of Little Old Ladies. Sounds like a cool name and all, but probably not the best way to make friends in the correctional facility I’d inevitably end up in. I mean, even bad guys have a Nan, right?”**

Dan leaned back in his chair and commented flatly, “Should have flattened her. Sounds like the old bat deserved it.”

**Phil sighed, a pitiful sound, but perfect for the narrative, “So, I’m ashamed to say, I did it. I stripped down to my pants and hung my clothes up as instructed.”**

Dan’s imagination, fully caught up in the scenario being spun up until that point, stopped and shorted out. He stopped listening to the animated telling of what happened next and downed what was left of his drink. _I don’t want to hear this,_ he thought as he pulled the bottle of vodka over to him. As odd as it was, Dan had never thought of Phil as someone who could be naked, or nearly naked, as the situation were. The mere consideration of Phil sans clothes left an uneasy feeling.

The fifth refill was decidedly more vodka than cranberry and Dan was relatively aware that he really shouldn’t keep drinking. Phil’s face, and everything around it, was already becoming distorted, as though he were looking at everything through a funhouse mirror. Instead of properly acknowledging his level of inebriation and its consequences, he held the mug to his lips and let the bitter, hair-raising, liquid in.

His mind drifted along with Phil’s out of reach voice. A male’s chest, bare and firm, came to view. The memory of his own breath, labored and excited, sounded in his ears. The feel of a cold hand on his cheek and the warmth that spread, despite the cold, forming under his skin became present. He pushed aside the mug as he felt the residual tingle of pressure on his lips and grabbed, almost blindly, at the bottle of alcohol on his desk.

In his haste, he knocked it over. The smell, as it poured out, was strong enough to break the unwanted hike down memory lane. He jumped up, “Fuck! Not the laptop!”

Moving far more deftly for someone who’d imbibed nearly half a bottle of alcohol, Dan plucked up the laptop. He backed away from the mess pooling on the glossy wood surface and almost cried when he felt the wetness on the bottom of his laptop. When he looked up and saw Phil’s face frozen in a wide grin, he stopped, “Please don’t. Please, be okay.”

 ** _“I- it…”_** Dan pulled the hem of his shirt to the bottom of the laptop and started wiping as Phil’s video stalled, **“wa..a..s –”**

The screen cut and went black and Dan could only stand there staring at the piece of technology, dumbfounded. His alcohol addled brain acknowledged that it was dead, but was too shocked to do anything but cradle the thing he held most dear. Instead of crying, as he felt he wanted to, he laughed. He laughed until he doubled over and had to set down the laptop and then, he started to cry.

He’d managed to kill the only thing that made him happy. Of course, of fucking course! And, on top of that, he had just spilled the only thing that could make it better, even for just a short while. _Rice, I need rice!_ He vaguely remembered seeing something on the internet about rice drawing out the moisture in an electronic that had gotten wet. It was worth a try, he decided, rubbing away the tears.

He got to his feet and swayed. Everything spun and his eyes seemed to see double and the room seemed to shift even as he stood still. Without thinking about it, his hand reached for the freshly poured mug still sitting on the desk. Somewhere in his head, against all logic, he had decided more alcohol would make things right again. He downed it all in one, burning, gulp. A mistake, he decided as soon as he’d done so. The room was going too fast. He wanted off the ride.

He took a step and then another. He reached his bedroom door and, realizing he still held the empty mug, tried to set it down on the night stand. His incoherent brain interpreted the order far differently and forced his hand to fling the cup. It, as well as half the items on his nightstand, ended up on the floor. Dan shrugged; it wasn’t the worst disaster he’d spun that night.

Ten minutes later, he’d made it to the kitchen and back with the bag of rice. Bleary eyed and far more out of it than he’d prefer, he tumbled into the bedroom. Not looking down, he tripped over the cord to his alarm clock and, arms flailing, hit the footboard of his bed. On his knees, dazed, he searched for the bag of rice that had gone flying during his fall. Almost all of it was spread across the floor. He stood up and, two strides in, ended up on his knees again. He was tired, he realized; so tired. He’d just lay there for a moment and then pick up the rice. He’d pour it over his laptop and everything would be okay; he just needed to rest first. His eyelids fluttered and then Dan was somewhere else, a cheerful voice in his ear telling him about a very bad day they’d had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know... we don't get the full story of Phil's time at Ms. Chatom's, but with good reason! Dan simply can't go there and the chapter got too long so I opted for less Phil on this. Forgive me, please! Next up... well, I've been spoiling you all. Next up is a secret! Teehee.  
> Okay, fine... you strong-armed me so I'll give you a small hint:
> 
> Phil hasn't forgotten Dan.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there you have it. Without letting on too much at the start, I can now say that there is a reason, beyond general discomfort, that Dan feels he cannot show the world the 'real' Dan Howell. Hint: the mystery phone call at the end has something to do with it. Stay tuned to find out more. In the next episode we find out what age Dan and Phil are and where they are in their individual lives. Also, old ladies with a grudge.


End file.
